Kate takes her phone and grabs a tissue from her handbag, knowing that whichever way this phone call goes, she will probably need one. She walks through the office painstakingly slowly, almost willing someone to stop and talk to her – anything to hold off the inevitable for a few more minutes. Even Stan, the normally-chatty post guy, who she bumps into on the way out of the building, lets her pass without comment.
‘Bloody typical,’ she says out loud, as she walks through a throng of smokers adding to the already polluted streets of E14. She holds her breath as the clouds of smoke billow around her, forcing her to step off the kerb. A black cab toots its horn and she holds up an apologetic hand. She has to apologize again when the cabbie pulls over next to her, thinking she’s hailed him.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t need . . . I was just . . .’ He tuts and joins the line of traffic again.
She hopes that once she’s made this call, her brain will return to its usual levels of awareness.
Her fingers fumble for the numbers on the keypad and she waits for the familiar options to present themselves:
‘Welcome to Women’s Health at Woolwich Hospital.
Press one for appointments.
Press two for test results.
Press three to speak to a doctor.
Press four for anything else.’
Kate’s hand hovers over the phone and she takes a deep breath before pressing two.
‘Women’s Health, can I help you?’ asks a monotone voice.
Kate wonders how you can sound so miserable when your job is to relay good news. But then she catches herself as she realizes that more often than not, it’s bad news this woman has to dispense. Kate wonders where she’s going to feature in the stats.
‘Oh hi,’ she says, cheerily, as if it will make a difference to the outcome of the conversation. ‘I’m calling for pregnancy test results.’
‘What’s the name?’ asks the woman.
‘Kate Walker.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘Fourth of August 1984.’
‘Hold on,’ says the woman, sounding as if it’s like every other call she’s received today.
What you’re about to say next will dictate my future, Kate wants to scream down the line. She thinks of Matt and feels a flutter in her chest. Our future.
She chews on her lip as she listens to a piped version of Beethoven, watching the people in Costa Coffee on the other side of the street as they go about their everyday lives. None of them knowing what’s happening to her, none of them aware that her life may be about to change forever.
Her eyes are drawn to a young woman working on a laptop, and she allows her imagination to build a world around the girl she names Bryony. She’s working on her dissertation in the coffee shop because she can’t bear the mess in the kitchen she shares with her lazy flatmate Ned. It drains her inspiration, yet she refuses to clean up someone else’s debris.
When she gets her 2:1 degree in politics and international relations, she wants to work for local government because she’s still naive enough to believe she can make a difference.
What a waste, Kate says to herself, cynically writing the girl’s aspirations off, even before she’s started.
The girl looks up out of the window and across the street to where she’s standing. Kate pulls her jacket around her to keep out the chill of the cold wind that whistles through the shadows of Dockland’s skyscrapers. Their eyes momentarily lock, and Kate is struck by the fact that this woman has seen her and is, no doubt, wondering what her story is. She can’t possibly begin to imagine the momentous occasion she might be about to witness. Kate smiles at her and the woman, seemingly embarrassed, returns to the screen in front of her. When did it become more awkward to smile at someone than pretend to ignore them? Kate wonders. She will never see this woman again, never give her another moment’s thought, yet whilst Kate goes about her life, so will this young woman, neither of them aware of each other’s existence and how important each of their lives are – to them at least.
‘Mrs Walker?’ says the woman down the phone, cutting off Beethoven just as he was about to reach his crescendo.
‘Erm, yes,’ says Kate, her mouth suddenly dry.
‘Your test came back positive.’
That was it. No gentle build-up. No advance warning. Just that.
‘What?’ cries Kate, steadying herself against a wall for fear that her knees will give way. ‘I’m pregnant? Are you sure?’
‘Well, that’s what the results say,’ says the woman, with not an iota of understanding of how big this moment is. ‘Kate Walker. Fourth of August 1984.’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ says Kate in barely more than a whisper.
‘Well, if that’s definitely you, then you’re definitely pregnant.’ The woman gives a little laugh, making her suddenly sound like a human being rather than a robotic voice on the end of an automated line.
Kate clamps a hand to her mouth and tears spring to her eyes. ‘I am?’ she says, still waiting to be told it’s a mistake.
‘Congratulations!’ the woman says warmly, and Kate wishes she could leap down the telephone to give her a kiss.
‘Oh my God, I’m pregnant!’ she says under her breath as she paces up and down the same five-metre stretch of pavement. Back and forth she goes, wiping her tears, only stopping when she momentarily forgets how to put one foot in front of another. Her chest feels as if it’s about to burst open as she thinks of Matt and how she’s going to tell him, but then she immediately pictures her dad, who she’d always imagined giving a ‘Congratulations Grandad’ card with an ultrasound scan of his new grandchild inside. He would have cried, she knows he would, and he’d have hugged her tight, not wanting to ever let her go. I knew you’d do it, kid, he’d say to her, letting on that he’d instinctively known
